One part only of me moving.
The rest of me keeping shtum.
My fingers taper to a point.
The nib shows willing.
Not one bit like keyboard keys
with their busy, busy, busy.
One shimmy of a sudden line
suddenly strikes through it all.
The lack of a word-count facility,
of the feint of a change of font.
Each new poem written off the back of the previous one.
- Soundscape A
Small scratchings like a bird in a thicket. Robin, possibly.
- Soundscape B
My arm across the paper, its slight taffeta shift.
That ink warmed by my body moves the freer for it.
While my right hand is playing with these words,
what do you suppose my left is doing?